I can see it now. Decades from now, when my daughter, Madeline, looks back on the trip to Virginia that she took with her mother, father and grandmother in April of 2013, she’ll say to me, “Remember that time, Dad, when you got all annoyed because I asked you to get off the highway so I could use the bathroom?”

By then, it might not matter that we had spent three days with dear relatives in a beautiful state that had become like a second home to us — that Maddie had climbed trees, taken daily bike rides, enjoyed the view of the Rappahannock River, played with her younger cousin and the puppy next door and stood in the very spot where George Washington was born. Nay, the story she will tell her kids — my grandchildren — will be about the time their Grampy tried to thwart her simple and God-given right to answer nature’s call.

“Dad, I’ve gotta go to the bathroom,” Maddie told me from the back seat. “Can we stop?”

“Really?” I replied, my annoyance immediate and clear.

“Yes, Dad. I’ve got to go.”

“We were just at the rest stop ten minutes ago. Why didn’t you go then?”

“I didn’t have to.”

And then I said, “Of course.”

I could see Valerie giving me a look that said, “Just get off the next ramp. What’s the big deal?” My mother remained expressionless. She stays out of these things.Deep down, I knew I was making a fuss. We had left Sanford at a little after six that morning, it was now the early afternoon, and we still had a relatively full day stretched ahead of us to get to Virginia in good time.

But here’s the thing: We were close to the George Washington Bridge in New York City, right where traffic starts getting really congested and hectic. I’ve driven this route a few times over the years, and I prefer to just get through it without taking detours and repeating a wrong turn I once took. Once I cross the bridge and pass the border into New Jersey and resume cruising on an open highway, I’m all set — we could pull over at every rest stop named after a president, a sports legend or a famous inventor, and I wouldn’t mind.Valerie pointed out a billboard for McDonald’s on our left. The sign said “easy on, easy off,” or something like that to imply simple access — clear proof that even Ronald McDonald knows that motorists who see that advertisement likely will not be inclined to just peel off a major road to get a Big Mac.So I took the exit. As it turned out, getting to the McDonald’s was not easy. It was on the other side of a busy route, and I had to first turn right and drive a bit before I could turn around and head left to get there. Then I missed the entrance to the restaurant because it blended in with a side street and the ways to get to neighboring businesses. Eventually, I just pulled into a service station, exasperated.By now, Mom was laughing pretty hard, in a gallows kind of way, which I admit I appreciated. I knew I was being an impatient grump — by then I had been driving for about seven hours, with five or six more still ahead of us — so I tried to moderate my mood with edgy but comical remarks.

After everyone had visited the restroom — yes, as galling as it was, I went too — I apologized for my impatience and initial reluctance to pull off the highway. Maddie, who in several ways is her father’s daughter, teased me about my crankiness. She can do a pretty spot-on impression of me, and it cracks everyone up, myself included.

We pointed the car toward the GW Bridge and continued our journey. We listened to the Eighties station on satellite radio — it was playing the top 40 hits of that weekend in 1985 — and I knew I had sealed my Fate. From there, I would be known as The Dad Who Did Not Want To Stop Driving So His Child Could Go To The Bathroom.

“Uh-oh,” Maddie would say in the days ahead, before we’d get into the car. “Dad’s driving. If you’ve gotta go, you better go now ’cause we’re not pulling over!”

And, of course, as Valerie settled behind the wheel at the start of her driving shift, she’d say, “If any of you have to use the restroom along the way, let me know. I’ll stop.”

Ah, serves me right. What comes around, goes around. I’ve become my father, you see. However, before you start singing “The Circle of Life” — you know, that song from “The Lion King” — let me tell you what I mean.

Dad planned these sweeping, elaborate trips when my sister and I were kids. He and Mom worked extra hard and saved money all year long to make these vacations happen. In the summer of 1989, we took our biggest trip of all — we spent three weeks out west, traveling through Nevada, Arizona and California and even spending an afternoon across the border in Mexico.

One morning, we set out to drive along the Big Sur. We had skipped breakfast at the hotel to hit the road early. Dad had us on a schedule.

“All right now,” Dad told us. “This Big Sur’s a long drive. If anyone’s hungry, we better stop now because there won’t be any places to get food for a while.”

None of us were hungry at the time, so we passed.

“Are you sure?” Dad asked.

My sister Kelly and I nodded. We were sure. We didn’t know at the time we’d be going another 12 hours without a bite to eat, but still. We were sure.We drove along the Big Sur, and it was beautiful, and when we finished the route, we continued north. The more we drove, the louder Kelly’s and my bellies started to grumble. We were hungry. Did we beg Dad to pull over to a burger joint somewhere? I can’t remember. I was probably too lightheaded at the time. Kelly and I might have sung “We Are the World” at one point. All I can tell you is that when Dad finally did stop at a restaurant that evening, we had not eaten since dinner the night before.Which restaurant did we choose? A Kentucky Fried Chicken, I think. Maybe a Carl’s, Jr. It didn’t matter. Whatever I ordered, it tasted like filet mignon.

Kelly and I teased Dad about this. He became known as The Dad Who Went A Full Day Without Stopping The Car So His Children Could Eat. For years, Kelly and I gave him a rough time — made sport of his Type-A vacation-planning and the busy, time-specific itineraries he set. We never let him forget that 24-hour fast.

It drove him crazy.

“We spent three weeks out there,” he’d grouse. “We went to Las Vegas and the Grand Canyon. We went to Disney Land, Knott’s Berry Farm, and Hollywood. We took the NBC tour and ate dessert on Rodeo Drive. We went to San Francisco. And all you guys remember is that 24-hour stretch when we didn’t eat.”

“We skipped lunch, Dad.”

“But I asked you in the morning if you wanted something to eat before we drove the Big Sur.”

Of course Kelly and I remember everything about that trip. It was the ultimate getaway for our family. We had a great time and will remember it forever. But it was always a gas to remind Dad about those food-free 24 hours.

So now you see why there’s a certain justice in my being labeled as the father who doesn’t like to stop for bathroom breaks while on long trips. Twenty years from now, Maddie will cherish her memories of Virginia, but the story she’ll tell will be the one I told at the top.